A Fella and His Mot
by Kalen Bloodstone
Summary: IN-PROGRESS... Series: Meet Janelle Kelly, the child of the Russian Mafiya itself. Years past she might have bottled up her pain, but now with Artemis Fowl on her arm, she has someone to share her terrible world w/. You know; war, drugs- stuff like that.
1. The Mot

When one travels to Saint Bartelby's, they would be shocked by the school's curriculum – proven to turn your child into a genius within a year. And they would look at its trophy room. They would marvel at the huge case, of oiled oak, filled with polished bronze, silver, and gold medals; it was a rare sight, but they may even notice the only two platinum awards. One for the Miss Dublin award. And two for the Genii2000 brainiac awards.

Under one universal picture was scrawled a name: _Artemis Fowl._ And under the second one, beneath a platinum dove, was another; _Janelle Kelly_.

Each dignified personages, yet totally opposite. One, a genius who dabbled in faerie folklore, and the other a devious – not to mention beautiful – crook.

If you were ever lucky enough, you might spy both in the same room – the only class they shared: culinary creations.

If you ever came by to watch, you'd also know they often paired themselves together. Now, after years of speculation, we have proven a myth which has plagued the school for almost a decade.

This is their story, written by a one Lauren McKlearen, respected detective of Scotland yard. One can only guess at her intentions as she investigated this tall tale, but it is speculated she bit off more then she could chew.

In the blue and orange halls of Saint Bartelby's, we enter a whole new world. An alternate dimension, you may call it. Here, we do of course have you're run-of-the-mill thespians, bands, and choirs. And, yes, we've won a culinary battle from time to time. But what we here at Saint Bartelby's are know for, as almost every student is aware of, is the science department.

Every school has their groups, yet we have somehow been able to separate ourselves from the usual stereotypical gymnasium or lunchroom. We here at Saint Bartelby's pride ourselves at knowing that, by far, we have two of the most unique students in the whole world. Yet their secrets remain almost untouched, we have unearthed impossible scenarios in which we find astounding outcomes. Read further to unearth what we here at Saint Bartelby's are known for . . .

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><p>As Artemis crossed the courtyard, fearing the worst, he nonchalantly readjusted his messenger's bag. The strap kept slipping, it was old and worn, yet he hung onto the raggedy thing.<p>

Today, he sported something he now always wore: jeans. A graphic tee from some theme park was hidden under his grey tweed blazer, and oiled loafers clad his feet. A Rolex was slipped onto his wrist, a beautiful model that he occasionally glanced at.

In his messenger bag could be found a series of exam books, each hollowed out. There two reasons for this, the first being he already knew the material, and the second being they were too bloody heavy!

His raven hair was cut into a crew, and intense, blue eyes watched every movement around him, calculating each new fact that came up.

Identical rose bushes trimmed the circular courtyard. It was perhaps fifteen paces across, with a compass embedded in the cement middle. North was behind him, according to the compass; this he noted was a fraction of a degree off.

Ornate stone-carved benches hugged each curve of the area, leaving four openings; one for each direction. Sandy-colored stones paved the walkways, and but for the ancient ash trees shadowing the yard, it was a freshly cut lawn.

Red brick enclosed Master Fowl from all sides, five stories high – with a greenhouse on the roof – and two balconies for two of the floors, great for overlooking the courtyard.

Only two ways to exit this place, but Artemis wasn't worried – he'd been undertaking this routine for over three months, and he knew what he was doing.

Artemis turned west as he looked at his Blackberry; a text awaited him.

_Janelle Kelly_ . . .

He quickly ran through the text, reading at almost lightning speed. As he responded, his attention was averted momentarily, for a good reason, too. Artemis looked up, his eyes meeting another's. Smoky turquoise eyes stared back at our young Arty.

In one brief hurtle, Janelle leaped over one of the stone benches – disturbing the people occupying the bench – and rushed to Artemis.

They shared a brief kiss before anyone noticed.

Now, the following is the most controversial. You see, it was evident that our young Artemis dated someone at Saint Bartelby's. Now, who? That is the question. This is the most debated. Several names have been mentioned, and yet until now, it was never confirmed _who _she was.

If Angeline knew who her young Arty was exchanging saliva with, she'd likely have a heart attack . . . or at least a palpitation.

You know her, of course: Janelle Kelly. But as to her appearance? That's an entirely different matter, isn't it? Well, you'll be humored.

Tall for her age, five feet seven inches, Janelle stood with an air of confidence. She knew she was one of the pretty women in the room, and she liked the fact.

Her hair, tied back in a ponytail with an overhanging fringe, was the color of light mahogany. Perfect ears, with a slight Irish tip, and a well portioned face, with the nose smack middle. Plump dimples; a short neck, with radiant skin and long eyelashes. Eyes that twinkled like the stars. Now, being such a common description of eyes, I wish to clarify something; her eyes literally sparkled. They were filled with life, love, and compassion.

Red nail polish, a plain gold chain necklace. No studs in her ears, but the holes were apparent. And, to keep this book readable for all ages – at least for the time being – we can leave her chest to the imagination.

She wore a white tank top under a thin, flowing, grey waistcoat; blue jeans for her legs, and simple black tennis shoes.

She looked sideways, briefly, leaving Artemis a clear view of her neck; a few freckles, but nothing else. Hardly any acne.

Almost the perfect girl. Almost . . .

Though she looked good, it's what was underneath that was terrible.

The daughter of a Russian Mafiya boss and an Irish immigrant, she knew all there was to know about the illegal underworlds. Lock-picking, drug and arms dealing – all of it, she could, and did, do. Recently, she had gotten better – now only a bit of stealing – but it was still out of control. And I don't need to tell you her looks help her case.

And she was Artemis's. Now do you see why he chose her? Not only was she glorious, but she was practically the devil. One badass chick, if I may say so myself.

Artemis glanced over her shoulder.

He hung his arm around her shoulder, leaning in slightly, and changed their course.

"Don't look back, but my friends are there." He then disobeyed his own advice, and came back to Janelle. "Let's just make our way over to class; I don't feel like talking to them today . . ."

She nodded calmly, not making any fuss about it. She, of all people, knew how to use a poker face.

The two walked to one of the two doors, opened it, and entered the Halls.

Regular carpeting, nothing too extravagant – just a plain fleur-de-lis pattern. Bright lighting, with lockers lining the sides. Every now and then you'd see a break in the gap – a door leading to another classroom – but that was usual.

As the two entered their classroom, they unhitched from each other, walking calmly to their assigned table.

The two started getting out their measuring spoons, as the teacher sulked at her desk until the class started.

"How's your day gone so far, doll?" Artemis asked, after nervously looking around the room. He was always tense, even in his own dorm room, which he only inhabited. It had its own security system, fingerprint sensitive locks, and everything talked. No, Janelle did not want to start the coffee pot!

"Fine," she recited, her usual answer to his questions. Artemis gently took her head in his hands, and brushed his lips against hers, as the Teacher went over the sanitary conditions once more . . . these two wouldn't be observing them . . .

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><p>I'm back guys (though not in black). Yes, I know this is an overused plot, but please bare with me on this. I'm going to try and not make it stereotypical, which I think so far I've achieved. Stone me, if you will; but I still think you guys will like this series none-the-less.<p>

I have a Poll on my profile that I'd like you guys to vote on; it could mean life or death for you guys. Okay, in reality it just tells me which fandom I should write a Series for. But wouldn't you like to determine that?

I must thank my Beta, as I enter another series. She'll be there, watching over my shoulder the entire time.

Lastly, I apologize for the OOC; just think of the reason why it was intentional . . .

~ Kalen Bloodstone ~

P.S. You've already done one of those R's, now do the other . . .


	2. The Brown

**Chapter Two**

_**The Brown**_

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><p>~ <span>Sorry for the wait, everyone. Without further ado, your story. xD<span> ~

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><p>Janelle studied a lock of her hair, twisting it over and over in a mesmerizing effect. She stared <em>into<em> it, looking for anything she had missed.

Now, obviously, she wasn't really just looking at her hair with great enthusiasm; she was also thinking over her day. Going over every minute detail, every new face and conversation. And most of all, Artemis Fowl II.

She'd done this for the past couple of years - minus the Artemis part - knowing he only was a recent addition to her mind. Every new event was catalogued for the future. She'd remember these thoughts for the next twenty days, in vivid detail, and then write them down in her diary for safekeeping.

She huffed. Bloody nights never seemed to end for her.

She turned over in her bed, eyes lazily moving to the clock that rested on her nightstand. Glowing red numbers told the time to be 2:37 a.m.

She shifted the blanket to cover her nude body once more as she thought of this. Another four bloody hours of just lying here, staring up at that bloody ceiling.

You could do a lot in four hours. You could bake a chicken within three hours, and the potatoes for another, while green beans stoop over the stovetop. A whole Thanksgiving meal could be ready!

You could write an essay in that long. And believe me, Janelle had loads of extra homework she could actually complete herself. But then what would Artemis be for? He could do all of her work within ten minutes, and he didn't even mind it. It could wait.

She heard a soft moan come from the other side of the room. Yep, there she was, her roommate Amy. The girl rustled around in her bed sheets, mumbling about tortoises and spouting out other random gibberish. At least _she_ could sleep. People like Janelle were never given such a privilege.

Too much to be sorry for, and too many actions to think over.

Speaking of which . . .

Our little Janelle was too devious for her own good.

With one last huff, she threw off the sheets. She quickly put on some clothes, and proceeded to head for the door.

Out the door . . . or not. She forgot her purse. Ladies and their accessories.

Now out the door _with_ the purse, she headed for her car in the parking garage one block south.

She shifted her gaze quickly around the grounds before running across them; she was now thankful for her summer training as an Olympic grade runner. It was paying off now.

Hardly any boy, nor girl, could match her stride.

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><p>… She knocked twice – paused – then knocked five times rapidly in a soft rhythm.<p>

This particular section of the city was very shady. Quite literally. The main street was surrounded with three-story brick houses, crunched up together like you see in London.

The shops nearby where behind these buildings, and carts selling ice cream and hotdogs could be found on the street from eleven o'clock in the morning to six o'clock at night.

Janelle nervously eyed the windows going around the structure. She knew this place well, and it knew her just with just as much familiarity. It could stab her in the back just as quickly as she could make the place crumble down to the ground.

She quickly tapped her belt knife, a Mark 1 trench (1), to double-check that she was armed. It was a beautiful knife, with three effective and efficient ways to kill, from the knuckle duster handle, the mettle stud at its base, and not to mention the sharp two-sided blade. Good. It hadn't fallen out since the last block, when she had done just the same thing.

She waited dispassionately. Her eyes wandered to the _1918_ branding the knife's blade, and to the sparkling brass handle/duster. A truly unique weapon that felt good in her hands.

Finally, about a minute later, after another two 'secret' knocks, the door was opened.

The first thing that happened was a burst of suspicious smoke loosing itself to the elements as it exited the room. This was, of course, the drughouse. They had different names all around the world, but none really varied; all the same basic design.

A tall man peeked out from behind the doorframe; his face framed by long disheveled hair - dirty blonde. His eyes, surprised and red-rimmed, were green.

This was the Doorman, known only as such around here.

He wore a dark trench coat with the front open, at almost all times. A bowie knife was strapped to his left leg, right above one of his tan boots.

"'Ello? What do you want? Who goes there?" He practically shouted into the street.

"I'm here for the brown (2), you ol' dolt. Now step aside, and I won't need fire you," Janelle antagonized, as she brushed the Doorman aside and entered the inner workings of the place.

"As you wish, Jani (3)," he replied, flushed; how was he to know she'd be here tonight? She wasn't expected to be here for another week at least . . .

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><p>. . . <em>3:00 a.m., <em>the blinking lights told him, as he looked up from his desk. He had already heard she was here; he'd just need to wait for her to collect the brown she had reserved. Her secret supply was always in stock, for she was _not_ a doll to mess with. Most anyone could attest to this, if they knew her well enough.

And that was bad news. All of his brown was sold out – the drought saw to it that he get none of his newest crop. All he had for her was Zopiclone (4).

Jani detested pushing pills. She would not be happy . . .

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><p>Janelle walked expertly through the house, ducking when needed and dodging out of the way when required. She crossed a room to get to the staircase - a noisy thing that squeaked every step of the way - and eventually ended up at the door.<p>

She turned the lock, to only find it locked . . . no problem. If this was how they wanted to work it.

She unsheathed the Mark 1, aimed the stud at the doorknob, and struck a few fast poundings. The knobs broke off from both sides, falling to the floor; leaving the door effectively unlocked.

Janelle opened the door slowly, letting the men inside fry a little longer in the deep end. She strode forward, her path dead-pinned to the desk in front of her. She winked mischievously at one of the men to her left before giving the man at the desk her full attention.

"Why, Ashleigh? That's all I have to ask? Why would you lock the door, well knowing I had a key in the first place? I cut you a deal with a major buyer, and this is how you repay me? Why would you have to do that to me? Another thought; what would you do if our roles were reversed?" She recited this as if reading from a script similar to that of _The Godfather._

Ashleigh cowered a little. He was already slouched in his chair enough to make an old lady envious, yet he somehow achieved another level of pity. He puffed his dirty-blonde hair out of his eyes, giving him eye contact with Janelle.

"I would tell 'em to 'eff off," he answered slowly, voice wavering.

"WRONG!" Jani shouted into his face, leaning over the desk and stabbing the Mark 1 into the tough wood, "Because you AREN'T the boss of the person sitting in front of you, sitting on his lazy buttocks instead of actually getting sales. Your profit hasn't improved in the past three months, and to be honest with myself, I don't know why I haven't kicked your arse out of that chair days ago!

"Now, Danny? His profit doubles each quarter! Shit, he has _grandmas_ selling his crop, MY crop, MY shit, MY money! Shit, if Danny could get close to her, he'd have our Uachtarán (5) begging for our shit! We have the shit that kids want these days, Ashleigh Parker! And if you can't sell it, you're out! You've got yourself a week to get sales above average, then your dropped on your arse outside this little establishment. Pick an apprentice, 'cuz the way you run this place, you WON'T be here in a week!"

The room fell silent, as Janelle collected herself, as well as her knife; the Mark 1 slid back silently into its sheath.

She smiled at her employees as she turned around. Then, she quickly spun around again, lightning fast - and promptly slapped Ashleigh.

"You've got a week, and don't you forget it!" she yelled, as she scooped up pillboxes of Zopiclone located by the door, then left Ashleigh to suffer in the dust . . .

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><p>AN: Right, well there was a lot of research I needed to do for this one guys, so that's the main reason it came so late. (Mocha [beta]: Also because I didn't proofread this quick enough. I sowwy.) Here are a few things I thought might need an explanation.

(1) Mark 1 Trench Knife: The Mark 1 trench knife was used during the first world war, though slowly lost its trend as companies such as KA-BAR and S.O.G started to contract Military Contracts.

(2)Brown is Dublin Slang for heroin; though I'm sure you guys got the idea.

(3) Jani: Pronounced Jenny.

(4) Zopiclone: Zopiclone is a prescription sleeping pill (it's especially useful for insomnia), which is now being seen on the streets of Dublin each day. Because of drought of their heroin crop, Dubliners are being sold these pills which come into the country from several areas, though evidently the main source is the Pakistan area. Also known as Zimovane.

(5) Uachtarán: Uachtarán is the Irish word for President.

Some last thoughts . . .

Now, I know it did take me a long time to write this, guys, but I had to do a lot of research. Just sayin'. It takes longer to craft stories like these, so I'd really appreciate reviews. I don't care about your view on the story as much as my writing, so if you'd like to critique my writing instead of my plot, that is totally acceptable.

**~ Kalen Bloodstone ~**


	3. NOTICE!

**Thanks, FanFic, for making me have to rewrite this. It wasn't hard enough the first time. I could physically send out a low growl right now, from what it's about to make me type over again. **

**I'm placing a stall on this story . . . as well as on FanFiction in itself. You see, I've started to write my own stories and poems again . . . I'm also going to probably shut down my FictionPress account, as I'm sure my poetry works there haven't gotten any attention in awhile**

**So, this still will possibly be permanent. I haven't decided yet. Who knows. **

**I'd just like to say thanks to everyone on here for what they've done; you guys have been my muse to encourage me to better my writing. I'd like to believe it has improved. I love you all so dearly. The random you's, the constent you's, and the odd folgies who came and went.**

**But there are three people I'd like to talk about first. I hope you all know how much you mean to me . . . I would never have gotten this far without you kids. Each of you were around when I was Aiden Fletcher- I hope you all eventually see this . . . anyone who knows these people who are reading this, I ask you send them over a . . . PM. I think that's what there called.**

**Honestly, I've forgotten how this sight functions . . . Again, I feel like I've cheated you guys, but I hope you also know that writers come with risks. I ask you to stay till the end. After I talk about these awesome people, I'll have a final word for you guys.  
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**Firstly; RAHbooks. You've been something of a Mentor figure to me. Almost each and every story I've submitted, you've commented on. You've also set me straight on a few things such as all of my capitals popping out at everyone. I thank you most for you . . . enthusiam of my work. You've been here since day one, and if I had enough Daleks to send you a card, I would . . . sadly, after their torture, they didn't last long. I forgot their fuel or something . . . You're an awesome person, in general, and your wit will one day keep you striving for whatever you have in your eyesight. **

**Secondly; Mochabelle33. My Beta, since about February. Giver or take a month. Though I already know you on deviantART, I'd like to say goodbye to the first you I knew. The odd person who wrote with too many emoticons, used too many exclamation points, and was altogether too hyper. We both remember me calling you the "Spazzy" type . . . Now, you're even more ODDLY normal. Since our friendship bloomed, we've talked so much it must account to around a month. At least. Remember that ONE Skype we did which lasted 5 and a half hours in itself? Yeah. That. Byebye.**

**Thirdly; WolfButler. You were the first person to ever give me a review; is it sad that I just remembered them being called reviews? For the record, I never had to look through my files to find it. I remember you being the first person - EVER - to give me advice. I'd like to thank you for making me feel welcome in this community. I could count on you and RAH for a review on almost every chapter I posted. For that, I thank you both.**

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><p><strong>As my final note, I'd like to say this; though I've washed my hands of FanFiction for the moment, I'm now on deviantART. I encourage those of you on here to take a look at my gallery. No restrictions- non-members can still view my work. A link is located on my profile; my username is also Kalen-Bloodstone. <strong>

**I's also like to tell you of a new account I recently made. The name? Kirill-Nightingale. A more Emo(tional) aspect of myself. It's my profile to help teens with by talking, and giving any advice that I know of. Also, some self-help pamphlets are in the making, for the shyer crowds. **

**As some of you know, I'm interested in Psychology- I've started a bit of it. I've also created an e-mail for that account, if you aren't interested in dA itself. And yes, that's an invitation. **

**If you ever feel trapped by the World, send me a PM here, asking for he email. I can give it to you, and we can pass back and forth. I also understand if you want to make it a sorta penpal type of business. Whatever you choose~!**

**~ Kalen Bloodstone ~  
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